The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart, The secret anniversaries of the heart... -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; Behind the clouds the sun is shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.

Every heart has its secret sorrows which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad

For his heart was in his work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every Art.

A torn jacket is soon mended, but hard words bruise the heart of a child.